


This House of Mine

by NeverwinterThistle



Category: John Wick (Movies)
Genre: Let's talk home improvement and not talk about the fact that you might die, Loyalty, M/M, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-02
Updated: 2019-12-02
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:41:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21645406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NeverwinterThistle/pseuds/NeverwinterThistle
Summary: “A spot of new upholstery, perhaps,” Winston muses. “For the lobby. Nothing wrong with the colour scheme, but I wonder if we might try a few shades lighter. Cheer the place up a little. What do you think?”Charon looks up from loading shotgun shells into his gun. “I have never noticed any lack of cheer about the place, sir. Has something prompted this desire to redecorate?”
Relationships: Charon/Winston (John Wick)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 41
Collections: 300bpm Flash Exchange November 2019





	This House of Mine

**Author's Note:**

  * For [asuralucier](https://archiveofourown.org/users/asuralucier/gifts).



The pearly gates are under siege; armoured boots on his beautiful floors, mud imprints like Rorschach blots on marble. Quite the inconvenience, but nothing to cry over. Mud wipes away. Rainwater and city slime, it will wash away as easily as blood. No trace of desecration once the cleaners do their work. Perhaps a new carpet for the dining room. Spit and polish for the silverware, wrap the bodies and burn them in the basement. Small changes. Hardly drastic. It wouldn’t do to upset the clientele.

“A spot of new upholstery, perhaps,” Winston muses. “For the lobby. Nothing wrong with the colour scheme, but I wonder if we might try a few shades lighter. Cheer the place up a little. What do you think?”

Charon looks up from loading shotgun shells into his gun. “I have never noticed any lack of cheer about the place, sir. Has something prompted this desire to redecorate?”

“Oh, nothing specific.” Winston waves his glass idly, wafting scotch and surety into the air around him. “I just thought the old halls might benefit from a spring cleaning.”

“Did you?” Charon asks. “How interesting. May I suggest that this could be the mid-life crisis we have been waiting for?”

“Could be. Could be, indeed, Charon; I’d trust you to spot it before I did. Very well. You do spend more time in the lobby than I do. If the state of the upholstery doesn’t offend you, then we shall let it lie.” The glass is raised in toast; Charon salutes him with a nod, where others might have done so with the shotgun he carries. But not him. No. He’s much too well-raised for that.

Outside in the Continental, gunshots ring out with an aggravating unpredictability, as unwelcome as a building crew above a diligent office space. But they have not yet broken through, these invading troops with their impermeable armour and impermeable orders. They have not beaten the old guard just yet. His house still stands as strong as it ever has. And it will take far more than faceless High Table shock troops to end Jonathan’s reign of slaughter.

Any who managed would march their way down to Winston’s abode and meet the _real_ ace up his sleeve. Heaven help them then. Winston wouldn’t bother.

“The curtains, then,” he says as Charon slips loose shotgun shells into a pocket of his suit. Where he’s finding room for them all is a mystery; the cut of his jacket is hardly marred at all. It sits as well on him as it ever does, and that is very well indeed. “In the dining room. I have often found myself wondering if they aren’t too oppressive. They make the space feel smaller. Shabby, even, perish the thought. Do you think it might be time to modernise?”

“I am not certain we should be too drastic,” Charon says with amusement. “But if the thought will distract you from your worrying, then by all means. When I finish the task at hand, I would be happy to order a full set of replacement curtains for the dining room. Or perhaps a set of blinds?”

“I do believe you’re mocking me,” Winston says. “ _Worrying_? It never crossed my mind; where you are concerned, I have absolute faith. You will outlast these walls, Charon, and all their curtains with them.”

“And you, sir,” Charon says. “If I have anything to say about it.” He slips two shells into the breast pocket of his shirt and smooths his tie down over them. Nothing extravagant in the gesture; where others might have monologued about loyalty and unwavering devotion, the likes of which no mere army can sway, Charon settles for tidying himself up and hefting the shotgun. He is, as he has always been, the last line of defence when all others crumble.

Not a scratch on him. Not a waver in his step. He approaches the couch and politely offers Winston his shotgun, exchanging it for a glass of scotch that is far emptier than it was when Winston last looked at it.

“Sir,” Charon says with a touch of smile. “If I may.”

He refills the glass from the crystal decanter nearby. When he returns, Winston gives back the shotgun. He reaches for the glass; reaches too far, and allows his hand to rest on Charon’s wrist instead.

No words are exchanged. Charon waits with the patience of a cliff face, as Winston finds his pulse beneath the skin and skilled tendons, a beat as steady as a metronome. As steady as the tides, as the rise and fall of sun, as the surety that the Continental’s doors open daily and the concierge will stand at his desk when they do.

“Be safe,” Winston says. He releases Charon’s wrist, taking the glass of scotch from his steady grasp. “Be _careful_ , for heaven’s sake. I’m far too old to replace you, and too fond of you besides.”

“There is no need for concern,” Charon says. His expression is pleasant, neutral. His tone is just a hair warmer than it gets around anyone else. “I would not dream of leaving without giving notice. And I do not intend to leave.”

“No. You don’t, do you? I rather think you never will.”

Charon is already turning away, making for the door and the war zone outside their brief, illusory Eden. Steadier even than the walls; a cannon might topple those, or a fire waste them away to ash and untidiness. But Charon would survive both. He’ll survive this. And when he has survived so well that the army retreats in fear of him, he will turn back to find the Continental welcoming him home with open arms.

Winston watches the heavy vault door swing closed. He doesn’t worry. There’s really no need.

His house stands strong, and Charon with it.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 300bpm flash exchange (round 2). The song prompt was:  
> [Natural](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VZOYXCvsFL0) \- Imagine Dragons


End file.
